


Ren the Blight

by Mingtea



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, fast pacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-03 11:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14568342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mingtea/pseuds/Mingtea
Summary: To Ondolemar, Markarth is a craggy, wretch of a city, but that doesn't deter the masked man known as the Blight. Curious. And curious enough that Ondolemar takes steps to know more.





	1. A Man on a Mission Accomplished

Stubborn Nords! Soap could be brought to the continent and they’d go to war for their right to stink!

As of late, Ondolemar had heard word of a local bard continuing to be one of the countless stubborn. Jarl Igmund is just as detestable and twice as cowardly. In accordance to the White-Gold Concordant, Talos worship is abolished and disobedience is punishable (preferably by death). Ondolemar and his Justiciars Cana and Elonwe are Thalmor, who uphold those agreements from his _throne-step_. He shouldn’t have to remind the Jarl, of all people, of the policies.

“We need evidence,” Igmund says.

Ondolemar has half a mind to barge into the old crooner’s house himself. He might! Who’s going to stop him? Who’s going to argue with him _when_ , not _if_ , he’s right?

But while he and Igmund continue to butt heads on illegal worship, they at least agree on the best way to deal with the Forsworn. Pests on the same level as Blades, Falmer, bandits and actual skeevers. A thorn in the side of everyone, Talos-heretics or not.

Igmund found his champion in the form of a man, a lizard, a dog, and mudcrab.

His name is Ren the Blight. Too tall to be a Breton or Bosmer; too slim and polite to be an Orc. No tail, so he’s not an Argonian or Khajiit. He lacks the Dunmer accent and doesn’t use their honorifics.

He is joined by Derkeethus the Argonian, Meeko the Dog, and a Dwarven-armoured mudcrab he named Scuttles. Their armours improve from fur to a mismatch of iron and leather, to steel. Ren’s face always hidden, whether by mask, helmet, or execution hood. All that is known is that his eyes are gold, a trait that made Altmer and Orc the sole possibilities.

This mismatched band come and go with bounties from the Jarl, they have no reason to interact and yet…

“You have the honour of addressing a member of the Thalmor. Bask in it,” Ondolemar declares.

“Do you live here?”

Xarxes backside! He’s stupid!

“I was sent here to uphold the Thalmor’s interests in Skyrim. Most visibly, rooting out Talos worship. Unless you have something to report, we need not be speaking.”

“Nothing to report. I’m looking for work.”

Ondolemar pinches his beard, “You _could_ solve a little problem of mine.”

“I’m interested.”

Ondolemar didn’t like the way that response rang through his chest.

He tells Ren about Ogmund and, being above Markarth’s guard, there are no red threads keeping him from outright telling Ren to break into the bard’s home and tear it apart in search of evidence. Ren tells each of his companions to wait and takes his leave.

“Bosmer are good with animals,” Ondolemar says in Aldmeris. Ren’s Argonian doesn’t speak the language but anyone can read gestures. Ondolemar, hopefully, made it clear that he is making a remark not a jest as their leader’s expense.

“Where is Ren from?” he asks Derkeethus.

The Argonian’s mouth hangs open. Ondolemar was about to repeat himself when he finally answers, “Cyrodiil.”

Ondolemar frowns, “That’s not what I meant.”

The Argonian laughs, the dog barks, the mudcrab makes a strange noise and waves its claws. How dare–

“I have no idea,” Derkeethus concludes.

“Do you not travel with him all the time?”

“Yeah. I asked him where he was from, once, and that’s what he said. Never thought to ask for specifics.”

“He’s made no allusions?”

“He knows a few spells but would love to know invisibility.”

“ _A_ llusions. With an ‘A’. Hints! Has he made any reference to _what_ he is?”

“Listen, he wants to keep it a secret so I’m letting him keep his secret.” Derkeethus folds his arms, “Not worth pissing him off.”

The Argonian adds, “I _did_ ask why he refers to himself as the Blight. His answer: he’s ugly.”

Never. Never in his hundred years (or so) of life had Ondolemar heard such a thing. He spends the next ten minutes thinking about it. He’s at least happy that what taxed him for two weeks only _took_ ten minutes. Ren returned with an Amulet of Talos found in the very-obvious spot of the only chest in Ogmund’s home.

“Excellent work,” Ondolemar says, but he leaves the honour of touching the accursed amulet to a Justiciar. “I’m fond of you already. Might I ask what brings you to Markarth?” he adds as he drops a coin pouch into Ren’s palm.

“You may not think so but Markarth is nice,” Ren tosses the pouch to Derkeethus before facing Ondolemar again. “The architecture is nice, at least. The moment I came through the door a man tried to kill a woman in the market. Said something about the Forsworn with his dying breath.”

“Typical,” is all Ondolemar has to say on the matter, “But I see a man like yourself isn’t deterred by such blatant violence.”

“Nope! I plan on living here. The Jarl himself said he can’t sell a home to a stranger and I’m off to fix that.”

A loose salute and the Blight, with his companions, leaves the Keep. Ondolemar heads to his chambers. He hates when a mystery goes unsolved but loves a good mystery. Or he likes gossip. Whichever. New Dossier:

 

> Name: Ren the Blight
> 
> Status: Active, Asset
> 
> Description: Male, mercenary, race unknown (assumed Altmer or Orsimer), age unknown
> 
> Background: Born in Cyrodiil
> 
> Operational Notes: Travels with Argonian and pets. Race unknown due to consistent concealment of all physical clues, even going so far as to wear an execution hood. Only explanation being ‘hideousness’. Declared an Asset due to willingness to find evidence of Talos worship – for a price. Skills in Stealth and One-Handed Weaponry exhibited by the eradication of three Forsworn camps (to be confirmed).

 

Scarce, but Ren is too unique a subject for this book to go empty for long. It’s exciting. It’s daunting. Especially the line about confirming the status of those Forsworn camps.

Druadach Redoubt. Small camp belonging to only the Forsworn. No one to clean it up. The first and second bodies had been struck by arrows (which were recovered). The Forsworn near the entrance had been blasted apart. A goat was the only living soul in the camp. Inside, three occupants had been struck with arrows. On the top ledge of the cave, by the forge, both the Briarheart and who was presumably his wife, had an unnatural pallor to them. Draining magic, to be sure.

Briarhearts are Forsworn elite, having traded humanity for a supernatural advantage by replacing their hearts with the briar plant. Ondolemar would’ve thought the pallor was a consequence if not for the similar condition of the woman.

The Briarheart was dealt with personally. His head was stuck in the fires of the forge and his body bloated due to the briar heart having been taken from the cavity in his chest. Gruesome… but that’s what he gets.

Archery, destructive magicks, and a penchant for violence will be added to the Dossier.

“He’s just a mercenary,” says Elonwe. Always the bold one.

Ondolemar inhales and huffs. He knows. He knows and she’s right.


	2. Crash Course of Action

Ren hasn’t been around lately. With him and his band of misfits slaughtering _five_ Forsworn compounds in the surrounding area, they’re finding work elsewhere. Ondolemar received word that the Blight had been spotted across Skyrim. Sometimes with the sole purpose of committing murder. He struck a farmer in Rorikstead with a poisoned arrow, wiped out a tower of bandits near Whiterun with fire and ice alone, and murdered the elderly owner of an orphanage by lifting her and smashing her headfirst into the ground… in front of the orphans.

Ondolemar runs a hand over his bare head. “This is unsettling.”

“Ondo!”

The Thalmor lifts himself from his reading and snaps his head towards the door. His Justiciars shoot to their feet and draw their blades. The upbeat greeting is jarring compared to the Blight’s appearance. At his side is a wretched mace; ebony and spiked with a green glow. Steel armour is upgraded to steel plate, the steel plate helmet is replaced by a horned helmet with an almost comical mustache embossed under the nose.

Ren points a thumb behind him, “Justiciars, out.” A demand laced in casualness.

Ondolemar dismisses his guard. Logic dictates that he shouldn’t trust the mercenary, but he does. He gets to his feet as the room becomes just them two. As soon as the door shuts, Ren slouches and Ondolemar’s heart skips. He thought… he foolishly _thought_ … that the helmet was coming off.

“I noticed an increase of Altmer in my travels. Caught one – alive – in Riften’s Ratway and he had…” He waves a letter.

Ondolemar folds his arms, “I know what I wrote.”

“Then what do you want?” There’s a slight hostility in his voice; frustration. Panic, Ondolemar would’ve guessed if not for his reputation.

“I’m not a Talos worshiper. Wouldn’t have helped you if I was.”

“I’m aware and have yet to find reason to suspect you of anything. I was merely curious.”

“Is this how Thalmor make friends?”

“Of course.”

Ren approaches, “Spies and letters versus ale and chatter? Come. To the Silver-Blood.”

Orc. He must be! He ushers Ondolemar along with so little effort.

“If I want a drink, it is brought to my chambers,” the Thalmor argues.

Ignored. And as soon as they’re out of Understone Keep and the cool winds grace his scalp, Ondolemar shrugs Ren off and flips up his hood. He feels something he hasn’t felt for himself in a long time: Fear. He has _feared_ the fall of the Dominion during tight spots in the war. He has _feared_ betrayal committed by the Bosmer. And the last time he felt _fear_ for himself was the day he left Skywatch for this drab city. Those are all rational things. It is rational, albeit humiliating, that Ondolemar fears being outnumbered by Nords. He’s never been to the Silver-Blood Inn. Neither of his Justiciars have. It’s too much trouble. Sometimes he just wants a drink and some quiet and these stubborn Nords were bound to deprive him of such.

Fear didn’t mean he was going to walk in with his head low either. He was Altmer. He was Thalmor. And, unfortunately, he had Ren.

The pair walk in and there’s yelling. None directed at them, fortunately. The barkeep is arguing with who is presumably his wife. There’s one man seated at the bar, Derkeethus seated on the opposite end of the counter, and a man and woman at the fireplace. The woman, Ondolemar is aware, is an Imperial agent.

Ren pats the Thalmor’s back, “Ondo here wants to know us.”

The Argonian’s mouth hangs open. Ondolemar doesn’t miss the sour stare of the innkeeper as Ren orders three bottles of Honningbrew Mead.

“I used to be a dockworker in Windhelm,” Derkeethus finally says, “But I hated the way they treated me – all my egg-brethren, really– and the Dark Elves – and found myself at a small mining settlement near Riften.”

Ondolemar frowns at his bitter drink, being more of a brandy man himself, “And how did you end up in Mr. Blight’s employ?” he asks the bottle.

“I went for a little exploring and was caught by Falmer.”

Ondolemar faces Derkeethus now. Another thing worthy of Fear are those subterranean savages. Derkeethus explains how his fellow miners mentioned him being missing and how Ren decided to investigate. Meeko’s barking alerted the entire cave, there’s a bloodbath but everyone makes it out alive.

“Looks like we got ourselves a hero!” someone slurs.

A Breton in a simple, black robe approaches and pats Ren on the back. Sam Guevenne is his name and he sets a tall, dark bottle on the counter and orders some cups. Soon, everyone is raising a toast.

Sam nudges Ren, “Up for a challenge?”

Ondolemar thinks not. Sam’s wine makes him shudder so hard he slams the cup on the counter. His vision already feels off. Ren, with his usual excitement, takes Sam up on his offer.

 

Ondolemar removes his wrist from his eyes. His vision is foggy but, even as it clears, he fails to recognize where he is. It’s clear that he’s outdoors but lying on lumpy bedding. A wagon. A wagon with a red blanket over wares beneath him and a colourful blanket over him. The horse-drawn carriage is being led by a band of Khajiit; vendors too devious to be allowed in cities so they sell outside. Ondolemar recognizes this caravan of cat-folk as Ri’saad and crew.

“Ri’saad how did I end up here?” the Thalmor moans.

The caravan leader looks to him. Teeth flashing and Ondolemar can’t tell if he’s pleased or pissed.

“You have a very generous friend.”

Pissed.

Apparently, Ren was getting married and being is so great a mood, he bought the caravan a wagon provided they bring the Thalmor home.

Ondolemar pulls his hood as far over his eyes as he can and lies back down. He remembers that bitter drink. He remembers how it tasted sweeter with a second cup and how it was the perfect blend of warm, rich and bittersweet the third. He remembers _nothing_ else. Doesn’t remember learning Ren had a fiancé. He guesses he could add that to the dossier.


	3. The Blight in Rags to Riches

Ren is out there with a wife and having settled down somewhere besides Markarth. Fair enough. Jarl Igmund recognized Ren’s work but claimed to not know the mercenary well enough to allow him citizenship. Ondolemar wonders whether Thalmor support would be helpful or detrimental.

Steward Raerek approaches and folds his arms but keeps an almost neutral face, “Your opinion on the Forsworn is seldom heard, Ondolemar.”

The Thalmor scowls, “Bold words, but I will allow you to continue.”

Steward Raerek approaches and folds his arms but keeps an almost neutral face, “Your opinion on the Forsworn is seldom heard, Ondolemar.”

The Thalmor scowls, “Bold words, but I will allow you to continue.”

The steward straightens, “It seems your friend, Ren the Blight, has been involved in a Forsworn conspiracy of sorts. Weakening them through their most influential under the pretense of working under Jarl Igmund’s banner. His crime would be the killing of citizens unfortunate enough to stumble upon his plans.”

“And where are Ren and his associates?”

“Already in Cidhna Mine.”

For the first time in days, this is what Ondolemar hears about his ‘friend’. While the fate of the Blight is disappointing, it’s good to hear that he’s in one place and at a disadvantage.

 

“No way. We’ve heard about your affiliation to that monster,” a guard argues.

Ondolemar’s fists rest on his hips, “The ‘monster’ you refer to is a target of a Thalmor investigation. _That’s_ the affiliation. Move before you lose in more ways than one.”

Ah, access. And what’s more satisfying than gaining access is watching the opposition scramble. No one visits Cidhna Mine. What is there to do in the case of an exception? There’s a bickering over whether Ren should be brought up or – as a few bitter Nords utter – whether the Thalmor should be sent down. Ondolemar elects to go. He does not fear withered, dust-covered savages and pays no heed to their permanent scowls.

An Orc overseer leads them to the Blight’s cell, passing Derkeethus’ cell on the way. She raises a torch, casting light on a Mer – not a Nord – who sat in what used to be dark. While Mer, his skin is blood-red, and his hair is wintry-white. Under a low brow are gold-on-gold eyes. Unable to hide, Ren steps forward. Besides the obviously Daedric features, the prisoner is a handsome one.

“So, _this_ is how you manage your feats.”

Ren grins. The sharpness of his teeth is slight, “Ondo, do I have a story to tell.”

“Agreed. Tell me all I need to know, and I might be able to shorten your sentence from lifelong to a hundred, at best.” Ondolemar nods to the Orc, “Move along.”

Ren watches her go before facing Ondolemar, “I’d rather you get Derkeethus free.”

Ondolemar agrees and is free to ask all he’d wished to know. What is Ren? _What_ is Ren? Is he really working for the Forsworn? Is he an agent of the Stormcloaks or the Empire? Who is he working for?

Camoran is a name Ren hadn’t heard of until his father, an Argonian priest named Jeelius, neared death and it was a name Ren continued to never go by. Ren doesn’t go into detail as to who Camoran was. What’s important is that, of the family, his mother was Altmer and his father was Daedra. Who or of what rank, no one knows.

“As for who I work for: no one. Not everything’s politics, Ondo. Sometimes it’s personal. I kill the Forsworn because I despise them. I don’t care about the War, but I don’t like how Ulfric runs his city and if I find opportunity to screw him over…” he smiles, “…I will.”

Ondolemar likes what he hears. He’ll have Derkeethus freed (or, at best, shorten his sentence) and his dossier finished by the end of the night.

 

Dossiers to update and copies to make and send, work to given to his spies and assassins, notification of agents lost, agents gained, reports to read, his own reports to write, and news from home to wind down.

There is a ruckus outside, but it doesn’t sound like a violent one. Still, Ondolemar goes to check. Thonar Silver-Blood speaks with Raerek among the company of the Markarth guard. Ondolemar sends Elonwe to witness the prattle but keeps Cana on standby.

He returns to his chambers, but the doors shut without his efforts. In a blink, Ren appears, fully dressed in armour with his helmet tucked under an arm.

“Thanks for the promise but Derkeethus and I broke out and were pardoned anyway.”

“Pardoned?”

Cana rushes into the room but her Master stays her and bids her return to the door. Ondolemar sighs and approaches his seat but Ren tugs him close and puts an arm over his shoulder.

“ _Pardoned_ for my work in killing the leader of the Forsworn. Jarl Igmund was so pleased, I was allowed citizenship.” He points at Ondolemar, “Three days and you will be my first guest.”

“Three? I haven’t seen you in two weeks! What happened after we went to the inn?”

Maybe he and Ren _are_ friends. That is all Ondolemar will admit despite how hot his ears are.

Ren begins to tell his story but remembers leaving his crew nearby. Soon Derkeethus, the animals, and the Justiciars are gathered in Thalmor quarters listening to an excited tale told by Ren and Derkeethus. Neither remember what happened at the Silver-Blood Inn and can only reiterate what they’d been told by the people they had to repay as consequence to their debauchery. They trashed Markarth’s Temple of Dibella, stole a goat and sold it to a giant, Ren nearly married a Hagraven, paid the jeweller in Whiterun 2000 septims for the ring, and cleared out a fort overrun with warlocks in his search for Sam Guevenne.

“For my troublemaking, I got a staff. Lovely piece.”

Ren slips on his helmet, promises to do his drinking in private next time and takes his leave.

 

Markarth was Ren’s home and, naturally, he was out and about making it homey. Naturally for Ren’s standards anyway. Ondolemar seldom leaves Keep. Ren always comes to him. But, in three days, as promised, Cana and Elonwe are given leave once Ren comes to Understone Keep. He is dressed in finery, but maintains a mask, hood, and gloves.

“There are so few pleasures in life as fine as your company,” Ondolemar says.

He means it. Ren spent the last few days furnishing but always made time to visit. For a half-Daedra, Ren is lively and friendly and never makes Ondolemar feel unsafe for long. There are so few pleasures in life like Ren’s company and even less people he trusts. His job is his job but the air between his Justiciars and him has even lightened. All because of Ren.

It makes him uneasy.

When things go so well, they can’t be true. When one spends countless days wondering where a certain someone is and hoping they’ll stop by, trouble likes to linger. Starting slight, then erupting.

Vlindrel Hall is beautiful. There is a brief rising hall edged by houseplants and light. Ren throws off his hood (so does Ondolemar) and begins the tour. Past the hall is the dining room and small dining spots by the fireplace where the pets sit. Bookshelves take up the left corner. is a fireplace and lounge to the right and library to the left. Ren shows off his Alchemy and Enchanting rooms and, really, Ondolemar is impressed. By the smells, Ren is skilled in Alchemy. By the glow of the weapons on display, he’s also a skilled enchanter. Ren then leads to yet another dining room, Derkeethus’ room–

“Where _is_ Derkeethus?”

“The Silver-Blood.” Ren leads the way back to the fireplace and hands his guest a bottle of mead, “We made a friend in an Argonian named Deep-In-His-Cups. Let me tell you what he said we did during that drunken night– and let me tell you the true ending of that story!”

Somewhere on the road, they met the Argonian and offered him ten thousand septims if he could steal the hat off a bandit. Cups, the madman, did it and had been searching for them ever since. Ren paid him in full.

Now, upon reaching the end of Morvunskar, where the wedding was supposed to take place, Ren and Derkeethus didn’t find Sam. There was a portal which led to a garden realm. Lush grass, fireflies, and a serene river. It took some wandering, but they finally came upon a dinner party. Regular folk having a feast hosted by Sanguine, Daedric Prince of Debauchery.

“I got the staff and we’re sent on our way.”

“It never occurred to you to ask whether he knew who your father was?”

Ren shrugs, “If I was the son of a Prince, I would be a god on Tamriel. But I have no such power and no Daedra that I’ve come across has mentioned anything. At most–” he nods to the violent mace in a display case, “–Molag Bal mentioned that I ‘have the stench of Oblivion’ and nothing else.”

Something learned: Ren is not a God.

“Well my family was a bunch of Daedra, cultists and priests. How about you?”

Ondolemar laughs. A right-from-the-belly laugh he hasn’t had at someone’s expense in ages.

“My parents are farmers!” he blurts before laughter can catch him again. He continues once he sobers. “I grew up in Skywatch, joined the Mages Guild, signed with the Dominion, and worked my way up.” He frowns, “Never thought I’d end up here.”

“But it’s growing on you! And I bet you miss the Silver-Blood.”

“I miss you all the time. It’s more accurate to say you’ve grown on me.”

Ren brightens and beams but suddenly halts the good feeling, “Wait, as friends or lovers?”

A smirk. “Lovers.”

Embarrassing as this is, Ondolemar manages to keep his humour. And as informal as Ren is, his Daedric boldness has him nearly on top of Ondolemar as they kiss. It’s startling. Ondolemar is used to bodies as tall as his but no larger. Ren is brawny –! – Ren is a Daedra! He knows this and has known it for a time but part of him wanted to bed the ungodly Mer regardless.


End file.
